Blackberry Wine

23

Lansquenet, March 1999

JAY AWOKE TO A SPILL OF SUNSHINE ON HIS FACE. THERE WAS A strange yellowish quality to the light, something strained and winey, unlike dawn’s clear pallor, but he was amazed when, looking at his watch, he realized he had slept more than fourteen hours. He recalled being feverish, even delusional, that night, and he anxiously inspected his injured foot for signs of infection, but none were apparent. The swelling had subsided as he slept, and though there was some gaudy bruising, as well as an ugly cut, on his ankle, there seemed to be less damage than he remembered. The long sleep must have done him good.

He managed to replace his boot. With it on his foot was sore, but not as much as he had feared. After eating his remaining sandwich – very stale now, but he was ravenous – he picked up his things and made his way slowly back towards the road. He left his bag and case in the bushes and began the long walk into the village. It took almost an hour, with many rest stops, to reach the main street, and he had plenty of time to look at the scenery. Lansquenet is a tiny place; a single main street and a few side roads, a square with a few shops – a chemist’s, a baker’s, a butcher’s, a florist’s – a church between two rows of linden trees, then a long road down to the river, a café and some derelict houses staggering along the ragged banks towards the fields. He came up from the river, having found a place to cross where the water ran shallow over some stones, and so he came to the café first. A bright red-and-white awning shielded a small window, and a couple of metal tables were set out on the pavement. A sign above the door read Café des Marauds.

Jay went in and ordered a blonde. The propriétaire behind the bar looked at him curiously, and he realized how he must look to her: unwashed and unshaven, wearing a grubby T-shirt and smelling of cheap wine. He gave her a smile, but she stared back at him doubtfully.

‘My name is Jay Mackintosh,’ he explained to her. ‘I’m English.’

‘Ah, English.’ The woman smiled and nodded, as if that explained everything. Her face was round and pink and shiny, like a doll’s. Jay took a long drink of his beer.

‘Joséphine,’ said the propriétaire. ‘Are you… a tourist?’ She sounded as if the prospect amused her.

He shook his head. ‘Not exactly. I had a few problems getting here last night. I… got lost. I had to sleep rough.’ He explained briefly.

Joséphine looked at him with wary sympathy. Clearly she couldn’t imagine getting lost in such a small, familiar place as Lansquenet.

‘Do you have rooms? For the night?’

She shook her head.

‘Is there a hotel, then? Or a chambre d’hôte?’

Again that look of amusement. Jay began to understand that tourists were not in plentiful supply. Oh well. It would have to be Agen.

‘Could I use your telephone, then? For a taxi?’

‘Taxi?’ She laughed aloud at that. ‘A taxi, on a Sunday night?’ Jay pointed out that it was barely six o’clock, but Joséphine shook her head and laughed again. All the taxis would be on their way home, she explained. No-one would come this far for a pick-up. Village boys often made hoax calls, she explained with a smile. Taxis, takeaway pizzas… They thought it was funny.

‘Oh.’ There was the house, of course. His house. He had already slept there one night, and with the sleeping bag and the candles he could surely manage another. He could buy food from the café. He would be able to collect wood and light a fire in the grate. There were clothes in his suitcase. In the morning he would change and go to Agen to sign the papers and collect the keys.

‘There was a woman, back there where I slept. Madame d’Api. I think she thought I was trespassing.’

Joséphine gave him a quick look.

‘I suppose she did. But if the house is yours now-’

‘I thought she was the caretaker. She was standing guard.’ Jay grinned. ‘To tell the truth, she wasn’t very friendly.’

Joséphine shook her head.

‘No. I don’t suppose she was.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘Not really.’

Mention of Marise d’Api seemed to have made Joséphine wary. The doubtful look was back on her face, and she was rubbing at a spot on the countertop with a preoccupied air.

‘At least I know she’s real now,’ remarked Jay cheerfully. ‘At midnight last night I thought I’d seen a ghost. I suppose she comes out in the daytime?’

Joséphine nodded silently, still rubbing the countertop. Jay was puzzled at her reticence, but was too hungry to pursue the matter.

The bar menu was not extensive, but the plat du jour – a generous omelette with salad and fried potatoes – was good. He bought a packet of Gauloises and a spare lighter, then Joséphine gave him a cheese baguette wrapped in waxed paper to take back with him, along with three bottles of beer and a bag of apples. He left while it was still light, carrying his purchases in a plastic carrier, and made good time.

He brought the rest of his luggage from its hiding place by the roadside into the house. He was feeling tired by now, and his abused ankle was beginning to protest, but he dragged the case to the house before he allowed himself to rest. The sun was gone now, the sky still pale but beginning to darken, and he gathered some wood from the pile at the back of the house and stacked it in the gaping fireplace. The wood looked freshly cut and had been stored beneath a tarpaper cover to keep it from the rain. Another mystery. He supposed Marise might have cut the wood, but could not see why she might have done so. Certainly she hardly seemed the neighbourly type. He found the empty bottle of elderflower wine in a bin at the back of the house. He didn’t remember putting it there, but in the state he’d been in last night he couldn’t be expected to recall everything. He hadn’t been thinking rationally, he told himself. The hallucination of Joe, so real he had almost believed it at the time, was proof enough of his state of mind. The single cigarette butt he discovered in the room where he’d spent the night looked old. It might have been there for ten years. He shredded it and threw it to the wind and closed the shutters from the inside.

He lit some candles, then made a fire in the grate, using old newspapers he had found in a box upstairs and the wood from the back of the house. Several times the paper flared furiously, then went out, but finally the split logs caught. Jay fed the fire carefully, with a slight feeling of surprise at the pleasure it gave him. There was something primitive in this simple act, something which reminded him of the Westerns he’d liked so much as a boy.

He opened his case and put his typewriter on the table next to the bottles of wine, pleased with the effect. He almost felt he might be able to write something tonight, something new. No science fiction tonight. Jonathan Winesap was on vacation. Tonight he would see what Jay Mackintosh could do.

He sat at the typewriter. It was a clumsy thing, spring-actioned, hard on the fingers. He’d kept it out of affectation at first, though it was years since he had used it regularly. Now the keys felt good beneath his hands and he typed a few lines experimentally across the ribbon.

It sounded good, too. But without paper…

The unfinished manuscript of Stout Cortez was in an envelope at the bottom of his case. He took it out, and reversed the first page as he slipped it into the slot. The machine in front of him felt like a car, a tank, a rocket. Around him the room buzzed and fizzled like dark champagne. Beneath his fingers the typewriter keys jumped and snapped. He lost track of time. Of everything.